


Your Longest Shadow

by The_Colonel



Category: Inception (2010), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Arthur Steals Shit, Arthur You Slut, Arthur is a Golden Retriever, Arthur is a brat, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Because Awkward Is My Middle Name, Blow Jobs, Bottom Arthur, Camels - Freeform, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Max Cares, Max Has Feels, Max Leaves Again, Max Rockatansky Comes Back To The Citadel, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Build, Still bad at tagging, There will be Porn, Top Max
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Colonel/pseuds/The_Colonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the desert wasteland, a fool and a thief meet.<br/>In the desert citadel, an empress is in need of an assistance.<br/>On an ocean shore, a group of dreamers is waiting for a wake-up call.</p><p>Road trip, anyone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fool

_This is the place where the fragile body meets corrosive capabilities of the sand, sun and wind._   
_This is the place where most flesh melts away, leaving behind mute, lonely, remorseful skeletons._   
_This is the place where the skin on your face wrinkles, the muscles in your arms and legs and back are hardened to thin threads of tripwire, that beautiful mind in your paper-thin skull shrinks to a tiny piece of a dried fruit._   
_This is the place where your spirit drags cheerlessly behind you, along with your longest shadow._   
_This is the place where your spirit drinks hard from your bottled up memory, only to throw up all the unpleasant stuff that your heart ate and swallowed, but never really digested._   
_This is the place where you spirit hikes to the nearest dune on a clear, desert night, and howls and barks at the severe Moon and all her pretty little sisters, Stars, while you lie in the cold dark and wish for a flicker of warmth and light in this ever-shifting, unstable, uncertain world._

_The desert stretches in all directions, around you, inside you, until it wears you like an old, tattered glove, until it becomes you, until it is you._

_I am the sand._   
_I am the sun._   
_I am the wind._   
_Say it._   
_I am the sad skeleton._   
_I am the half-wit._   
_I am the only shadow in a country with no shade._   
_Say it._   
_Say the word._   
_I am the Man of No Memory._   
_I am the Man under the Moon._   
_I am the Man that Melted Away._   
_Say it._   
_Say the word._   
_Tell us your name._   
_I am…_

Max woke up to a sound of angry shouting. His mind did a quick calculation.  
Shouting equals People equals Trouble equals Hasty Exits or Violent Encounters.  
Great.  
Just his bleedin´ luck.


	2. The Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur came here to steal shit and lie...  
> And he just ran out of lies.  
> Stupid kid. Who´ll help you out now?

Arthur had always, always hated the desert, but growing up in it, being surrounded by it and moulded by it, enduring all the hardships and enjoying the few delights it had to offer, all that made him something of a Stoic. And if not exactly that, then at least a calm and centered man. He didn´t have an overall, overarching scheme, no Grand Goal that would govern his whole life, but he prided himself in being good at the inevitable day to day planning. When an item of sustenance was needed, he always knew how to provide. When a car ran out of gasoline in the middle of a lonely trail, he always had a spare jerry can stashed away somewhere under the back seat. When the Buzzards, the War Boys, or some other scavenger clan attacked, he always knew how to handle the situation with minimum losses for his team. He was organised, but he could improvise pretty well when shit hit the fan.

Although, some particular mounds of manure were harder to shovel away than the others.

The tavern was not exactly brimming with customers today. In fact, there were only two or three drunks guzzling gods-only-know-what in the darker corners of the room, a guy in a well-worn leather jacket who fell asleep with his head on the table, and a pair of old geezers playing Ribbcage and ostentatiously ignoring everyone around them. One of them appeared to be blind.

The less people there were to see, the less witnesses there were in a situation with a potential to escalate into violence.

Not that it mattered much here, in Gas Town, where eye-for-eye constituted practically the only law imposed by the Upstairs Caste. But still, staring eyes of a crowd made some types think at least once before reaching for their terrifying, often home-made weapons of personal destruction.

In situations like this, Arthur usually played for time. And usually, one of his own showed up to help him out, just when help was needed. Unusually, though, Arthur was alone today, and he was also very short of ammunition. Improvisation was needed.

“I´m telling, you again, Weasel, I´ll pay you back as soon as I can,” Arthur lifted both of his palms in a gesture of surrender. “You know me, right? Have I ever swindled you before?”

“Yeah. Ya have,” replied Weasel Teaser in a grey, flat, tired monotone. “Ya owe me for rent, ya owe me for food, ya owe me for the jerry can o´ gasoline´s got lost yesterday...”

“Are you implying...” Arthur raised his voice, hoping to attract the attention of at least one of the drunks. Drunken layabouts were often robbers, muggers and thieves according to Arthur´s experience. And birds of a feather stuck together. Sort of. “Are you implying that I actually STOLE some of your personal belongings?”

“Not implyin´ anythin´. Just sayin´,” Weasel Teaser sighed. “Look, either ya give me the keys to yer bike, which as far as I can tell is the only thing upon yer sorry-ass person to be of any value to me whatsoever, or I call See-Saw to settle yer bill fair and square. Howsabout that?”

Arthur pretended to consider the offer, weighing all the possible escape plans in his head instead. Distraction. What he needed was a distraction.

From the corner of his eye he noticed the guy in the leather jacket getting up as if about to leave. Desperate times call for...

“Hey,Bob!” Arthur exclaimed in a fake-cheerful tone. “Didn´t notice you there, buddy!”

The man blinked at Arthur stupidly. “Huh?”

 _Oh, great. He´s a Feral, after all_ , Arthur thought with dismay, but continued in his banter anyway. “Got a problem with Mister Weasel, here. Thinks I´m being dishonest about some transactions I had engaged in with him… Won´t you vouchsafe for my moral integrity, Bob?”

“Uh-huh,” the man shook his head and continued towards the exit.

“See?” Weasel lifted one eyebrow. “No friend to drag ya out of yer own mess. Yer bike, or both of yer legs. Choose wisely, Artie-boy.”

“Look, honestly, I CAN pay you back, but you have to...”

“See-Saw! Come and git ´im!”

 Weasel did not even have to raise his voice, seeing as his partner was already listening in on this conversation behind the kitchen door. Now he emerged in all his looming splendour.

Arthur, of course, knew See-Saw, who was somewhat of a notorious figure around these parts. That name was intended to be a humorous pun.

There was nothing even remotely funny about the man himself, however. See-saw was over six feet tall, he was heavily muscled and aggressively bald, one of his eyes was replaced by a zooming lens, and he proudly waved a chainsaw attached to the stump of his left arm.

“Come´ere, lil´ bunny,” he taunted Arthur in a surprisingly soft voice. The motor in his saw-arm started to buzz like a huge and massively annoyed meatfly.

 Max had all but closed the door of the drink-room behind him, when he heard that ugly sound. Whatever future it promised, it certainly meant serious harm.

“Stupid kid,” Max muttered to himself, lingering with his hand on the doorknob. “Stupid fucking kid.”

There was a sound of one, and only one shot, then a loud crash of something splintering against the concrete floor, then a thud and a high-pitched wail as the chainsaw obviously found something to chew through.

Max wrinkled his nose like a puzzled hare. Frowned a little. Then took his sawed-off shotgun from a hip-holster and burst back through the door, back into the tavern.

**Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid thief of a kid!  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I borrowed many, oh so many crucial elements from Mr. Miller´s and Mr. Nolan´s respective cinematic worlds, but then I ran away with them, and will probably do horrible, utterly uncannonical things with them. As I usually do.  
> Boy oh boy, am I excited!  
> PS: This is my first Eames (sort of)/ Arthur ship fic, and it is actually the first that I intend to finish.  
> For suuuuurrre...:)  
> PPS: Unbeta-d. Any and all mistakes and mess-ups are mine, and mine only. And seeing as English is not my native language... Well you have been warned.:)


	3. Human Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur would make a great therapist. Or an even better golden retriever. I haven´t decided yet.  
> Oh yes, and Max finds out that he has feels. Lots of those, apparently.

Max did not run, did not cower, did not even turn around, because that kind of behavior only attracted more unwanted attention. The key to a successful evacuation from a scene of slaughter was a steady, confident walk. And making sure that you had as few red stains upon your person as possible.

Max licked the blood flowing from his broken lip and spat, took off his blue scarf, wiped his face clean of See-Saw´s blood and brain matter with it, and threw the scarf away without looking. That thing was soaked.

He was almost nearing the alley where he had left his car the previous day, but then he seemed to change his mind and his direction completely, taking yet a different tiny street. Only after he was well on his way into the wrong alley did he turn around. “Need anything?”

Arthur, who trailed behind Max like a stray dog the whole time, clutched his injured arm closer to his chest and offered a tiny hopeful smile. It was an oddly timid expression on a man that was very obviously an opportunistic thief. “Thought I might be able to talk you into giving me a ride.”

Max frowned. “What about your bike?”

Arthur shook his head. “No gasoline. And probably flat tires, too, if I know… If I knew Weasel well. I also have a sprained wrist, as it seems. Won´t be able to drive, at least for a few days.”

Max hummed something incomprehensible, turned around and continued walking.

“Does that mean a yes?” Arthur caught up with him. “Look, I just need to get within a walking distance of the Citadel, is all. You don´t need to take me the whole way. I´ll be able to reimburse you for your troubles anyway. Promise.”

Max was silent for some time, then he stopped as though he needed to think. His blue-green eyes darted from one corner of the dirty street to another, until they settled on Arthur´s slim figure. Arthur was the same height as Max, and probably about the same age, too, but right now, with his boyish, doe-eyed face, his sticking-out ears  and his wounded arm cradled to his chest, he looked like a proper street urchin in dire need of help. He could probably use a decent meal, too. And a wash.

“Who´s… The Citadel´s still standing?”

“Grander than ever,” Arthur replied. “Plenty of water and supplies there. Decent mechanics and medics, too. Anything you might need. Just say the word.”

Max winced briefly, as if in pain, but quickly controlled himself and nodded.

The hike to the car was short and quiet. Arthur, however, had ample time to have a good look at the man that almost single-handedly took down both the Weasel Teaser and the hilltop of meat and metal that used to be See-Saw.

The man that he had addressed as “Bob” was not exactly tall, but wide-shouldered and solidly built. He wore your typical, non-descript drifter uniform of a once-black-now-sandworn-to-petrol-grey leather jacket, cargo pants, combat boots and a utility bandolier slung across his shoulders and chest. His sandy brown hair was trimmed short, his face was unshaven, but not even the beard and the blood drying on his cheeks could disguise the fact that he was strikingly handsome.

There was a long, deep scar running from the edge of his hairline towards the centre of his skull. His eyes were constantly scanning the surroundings for danger, yet he had that mildly distant expression of a man who had seen far too much, and who´s capacity for surprise was long spent.

Something about the drifter seemed familiar to Arthur. Maybe it was the barely noticeable, but still visible limp in his left leg. Maybe it was his rumbling, grumpy, but strangely mild voice. Maybe it was the wild, coal-black swirl of a tattoo peeking just above the neckline of his grey sweatshirt.

They got into the car, Arthur sliding smoothly into the shotgun seat. “Does this thing have safety belts?”

Max did not laugh, but did not became angry at Arthur´s jibe either. The car´s motor rumbled into life. After a few minutes of careful manoeuvring among the swarming, haggling, rowing citizens of GasTown, they left the city limits, entering the endless sands of the desert.

Max shifted gear, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. “Are you even old enough to remember safety belts?”

“I´m twenty-nine,” Arthur said with a hint of pride. Then he seemed to remember his manners, such as they were. He extended his good arm towards Max, offering a handshake. “I´m Arthur.”

“Mhm,” grumbled Max, ignoring Arthur´s proffered hand completely. He scratched the nape of his neck instead, then placed his palm on the steering wheel again. There was a large, round, flower-shaped mass of white scar tissue on the back of his right hand. It must have been pierced by a sharp and thick projectile some time ago.

Arthur´s eyes twinkled with recognition, and his mouth twitched in a suppressed smirk. “And what should I call you, O Saviour of mine?”

“Don´t care,” Max answered honestly.

“I´ma call you Max, then,” said Arthur, stretching his neck and adopting a more comfortable position in the seat, resting his injured arm in his lap. He briefly glanced at the reflection of Max´s face in the rear-view mirror. “You look like a Max.”

Max sighed inwardly. Maybe he should have seen this coming. “Furiosa sent you.”

“Not really,” Arthur shook his head. “This was my… you could call it a day off duty. But when she was telling me about the re-taking of the Citadel a few months ago, Furiosa did mention a crazy smeg of a drifter who helped her and the rest when help was needed. She did say quite a lot of other stuff about you, actually. And I happen to have a good memory.”

“Bully for you,” mumbled Max. Then, as though he too remembered something important, he jerked his head towards Arthur´s side of the car. “Open the glove compartment.”

Arthur hesitantly did so. There was no booby trap inside, neither a coiled poisonous snake. Only a scratched and battered tin box and a stack of maps. Arthur took out the box and opened it. It was a first-aid kit of sorts.

Arthur turned his puzzled eyes to Max.

“Never seen a roll of bandages and a band-aid?” Max seemed almost amused.

“´Course I have,” Arthur frowned a little.

“Then get to it. ´S gotta hurt,” said Max, then glanced at Arthur briefly. Arthur´s mind was now focused on binding of the wrist as tightly as possible, his face scrunched up in pain and pale, incongruously pale for a person living in a desert, with only tiny spots of colour high on his cheeks. All of a sudden, he looked young. Very young.

The bandaging was not going well, seeing as Arthur could use only one hand.

Max slowed down the car to a halt. “Let me.”

His thick fingers were surprisingly deft when he bandaged the wrist, the touch of his hands warm, scratchy and comforting. He bowed his head slightly to what he was doing, and when he was done and lifted it up again, he found himself staring right into Arthur´s eyes. In that moment, Arthur´s entire face lit up with a genuine, beatific, dimpled little smile. He didn´t even need to say anything. His gratitude was all there for anyone to see.

Max quickly turned away, returned the tin box back into its rightful place and resumed driving. He was silent for many hours after that, seemingly ignoring his passenger altogether, and thankfully Arthur respected his sudden need for privacy and personal space. But when Arthur fell asleep, curled around himself protectively, Max couldn´t help but steal a few curious glances at the young man from time to time.

So many years have passed since Max has left most of his ordinary needs, desires and social instincts behind. So many years since he last did not resent the company of another person. Such a long long time since he last felt an active want to actually touch someone else, and not in a violent way...

Max´s tactile memory went into overdrive then, dragging a host of suppressed emotions, traumas and metaphorical ghosts in its wake, flooding his consciousness with things dug out from the deep. Too many memories have been shelved and never revisited. Too many thoughts have been muffled, muzzled and locked away. Max had to bite hard on his split lip, the physical pain helping him to focus his mind on the road ahead again, helping him to drown out the internal turmoil. But he had an inkling that the memories would not be coaxed back into their cages this time. It was too good to be out in the open, out in the fresh air.

And all it took to open the floodgates was the simplest of things - Max incidentally running his fingers across the soft expanse of skin on the inner side of Arthur´s wrist. And that smile. Yes, that open and honest smile of Arthur´s did its work, too.

 _Yes_ , said Max´s mind. _Now I remember. We were human, once. We had hope, once. We had purpose, once._

_We did not belong solely to the desert, once._

_Is there still time to turn back?_

Max sat behind the wheel, almost frozen but for the tiny movements with which he steered the car, watching the rough desert terrain being consumed by the tires of his rusty Ford. Such a lonely, terrifyingly lonely landscape. Such an abandoned wasteland. Such a waste.

There came a quiet snore from the passenger seat, waking Max from his reverie. A tiny, insignificant, mundane sort of sound. A sound alien, and familiar at the same time. A purr of comfort. A sigh of warmth. A sign of life in a place that has been left for dead long time ago.

Max wiped his red-rimmed, watering eyes with the back of his right hand.

_Must be all that dust and sand._

_Must be all that sand._

_Yeah, and that dimpled smile, too._


	4. Semi-feral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look who´s back from a bout of writer´s cramp? :)  
> And appart from the many apologies to the readers that are still with me, I also bring another chapter.  
> The one where Max continues in mothering Arthur, and Arthur continues dragging Max out of his shell.  
> There´s also lots and lots of sand, and one absolutely unnecessary usage of the c-word.

Arthur woke up after a good few hours of sleep, and only because of the fact that the car had stopped moving. Blinking groggily, he wiped the sleep away from his eyes with his right hand and looked at the desert. The landscape around the vehicle did not change much from the one Arthur had seen before nodding off, but then - most places, things and even living organisms tended to look very much alike after the sand and the wind and the sun had had their sneaky way with them, obliterating all the minute details and differences in favour of a uniform, homogenous mass.

Max was not inside the Ford, because he was taking a leak, polite enough to trek at least twenty feet away from the car before doing his business.

Arthur opened the passenger door, got out and followed Max´s example, only on the other side of the car. But relieving himself proved to be quite a task, as yet again he had only one good arm to operate with. The other one hung limply by his side.

When he was done, he turned around to discover Max rummaging in the trunk of the car. Arthur approached him slowly, cautiously, as one might approach a stray dog. It might be fairly friendly and grateful for the attention you were giving it, but then again it might just go berserk and bite your fingers clean off. “Are we close?”

“About four hours drive,” replied Max and straightened up. He had a new blue scarf wrapped around his neck and another one in his hand. He jerked his head in the direction of Arthur´s left side. “That arm just hanging - no good for the shoulder. Should support it.”

Arthur nodded and let Max tie the scarf around his neck, upper back and left shoulder, cradling the injured arm in the makeshift sling. “How come you know so much about... you know, doctoring?”

Max tied the last knot, checked whether the sling was tight enough and grumbled in a satisfied manner. “Hm. Good. Let´s go.” Then he closed the trunk and got into the car without another word.

Arthur blinked, confused for a few seconds, then smirked to himself. Ah, yes, Max was said to be somewhat asocial, somewhat absorbed into what was happening inside of his own head, his own little world. Apparently, one had to be patient and thorough when trying to communicate with the drifter.

Arthur resumed his seat and turned to Max, who was already starting the car´s engine. “Hey, no offense, but I asked you a question.”

“Yeah?” Max´s eyes and attention were focused on the road in front of them.

“Do you do this often? Not answering questions when people talk to you?”

“Don´t much talk to people.”

“No surprise there,” Arthur snorted, and immediately felt bad for the derisive tone of his comment. “Sorry. I´m just not used to...”

“Not used to ferals,” Max offered.

Arthur chuckled. “You could say that. Though you don´t seem like a real feral to me. Semi-feral, at best. Which reminds me - any chance of bumming some food off of you? I could eat a lizard - skin, guts, bones and all - if I weren´t civilized enough...”

Max´s eyebrows jumped up, almost crashing into his hairline, and something resembling shame quickly flashed through his mind and body, and was gone again. He rolled his shoulders to get more comfortable. “The glove compartment. Behind the maps. Also water. Underneath your seat.”

Arthur fished a neat, brown-paper packet of mutton jerky from its hiding place and attacked it ravenously, washing the meat down with large swigs from one of the field bottles that Max kept in the car. Only when he partially satisfied his hunger and thirst did he remember Max. “You want some too?”

Max shook his head.

“Not even the water?”

Another head-shake.

“Even camels need to drink, Max.”

Max wrinkled his nose. “Hate camels.”

Arthur seemed amused. “What about dromedaries?”

Max flashed Arthur an annoyed look, but decided not to fall into the conversational trap. People were very eager to trade words with each other - playful banter, mock insults, subtle encouragements, blink-and-you´ll-miss-´em terms of endearment hidden in a seemingly pragmatic dialogue - they exchanged words as though they were cheap little trinkets picked up at a flea-market. As though it was so very easy to part with them. As though there were no dangers in sharing what went bump in the constant twilight of your mind. As though you could actually take your words back even when you´ve already said them.

And it wasn´t that Max believed that words were actually more than deeds. No, not by a far mile.

But words had a way of betraying you, no matter how hard you tried being careful with them.

So Max prefered silence. Silence and solitude. Predictable, unsurprising, mundane, slightly shabby, yet comfortable solitude. Only him and the road. Only the steady hum of the V8 engine, the hiss of the wind coming in through the half-open window, the quiet rattle of the many guns that were distributed randomly around the interior of the Ford in various hiding places...

A hand closed itself around Max´s wrist, dragging him out of his reverie. Max shook it off immediately, as if in disgust. But when he turned his head to Arthur, the younger man did not seem to be offended at all, merely shrugging his narrow shoulders. “I talked to you for a few minutes and you didn´t even growl. I actually thought you were falling asleep behind the wheel.”

“I don´t sleep,” said Max, and after a moment of deliberation added: “...while driving.”

He was awarded with a genuinely pleased peal of laughter from Arthur. “You say the strangest things, Max.”

“Mhm.”

Just as Max was getting snug in his own private bubble of relative quietude, the insufferable brat had to open his pie-trap again. “By the by, I wasn´t lying about the reimbursement. I can pay you back for your hospitality, you know? I can pay you back right now.”

Max eyed him with very obvious doubt, furrowing his brow in the process. At the very moment, there wasn´t anything on Arthur´s person that could be used as a tradable commodity - he had no water, no food, he was out of ammunition and didn´t seem to posses any other weapon than his old Glock, his clothes were clean but worn, and tailored specifically for his narrow frame - there was virtually nothing to sell.

Well, almost nothing.

Max took another long look at Arthur, boyish Arthur with his large brown eyes, his sharp-cut features, his pale, surprisingly clean skin, his delicate hands and his long slim legs. And that smile, little dimpled smile tugging at the corner of his mouth…

“I, uh, Arthur… No,” Max jerked his eyes away rapidly. “I mean… I don´t… Not that you´re not… Just no, all right? You don´t owe me anything.”

“Wait...” Arthur grinned in disbelief. “Do you think I was offering you a fuck?”

“Weren´t you?”

“No! I was just...” Arthur rubbed his face. “Look, there´s a jerry-can full of gasoline in the trunk. I hid it under some of your stuff. It´s yours. That´s what I meant by paying you back.”

Max did the math. “You stole it from Weasel, then.”

“Yeah.”

“And you were gonna steal my vehicle, too.”

“Well... yeah,” Arthur conceded. “It was the only usable car in the area, so I hauled the gasoline into it and, stupidly enough, went back to Weasel´s to collect my own things. A rookie mistake, I know, but everyone fucks up sometimes… I had a real stroke of luck with you turning up.”

Max hummed, shrugged his shoulders and fell silent again. He wasn´t in the least concerned about Arthur´s  former thieving intents. He would have done exactly the same thing had he been in Arthur´s place. This was a dog-eat-dog world, after all.

“So… You´re a queer, right?”

Max fought of the sudden urge to slam his forehead into the steering wheel out of sheer desperation, then merely sighed instead. THIS was exactly what you got when you suddenly started participating in conversations with other people…

“Is this important to you?”

“Might be,” Arthur nodded. “One likes to know who he travels with.”

“One also likes to keep private things private.”

“You breached the topic yourself, Max.”

Words, words, words, always those bloody stupid _words_ messing things up!

However, in this instance, Max had to admit that the kid was right. It was Max who jumped at the conclusion that Arthur was a male-whore or something, and it was surprising that the Citadelian did not seem to be angered by the assumption at all. Max owed him one.

Max hated the feeling of owing something to someone even more than he hated camels.

Which was a whole fucking lot.

“I´m not… I would´t say I was queer,” Max started slowly, slowly, as if he had to look up every word in an invisible dictionary. “But, uh… woman, man, it´s all the same to me. I´m not prejudiced.”

There was a moment of almost palpable silence emanating from the passenger seat. Max gave up after a few seconds and cast a questioning gaze into the rearview mirror. Arthur was grinning from ear to ear, that little shit, grinning and returning Max´s gaze without a blink.

“You know what, Max? I think we might have a thing or two in common, ´cause I´ve been known to suck cock, too.”

Max exhaled loudly through his nose, trying to appear annoyed, but there were crow-lines of laughter forming around his placid blue eyes without his permission.

My. That brat certainly knew how to be direct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rude, offending c-word that I had in mind was of course "camels".
> 
> WARNING: Now follows a teaser for the next chapter. Sexytimes ahead, folks!
> 
> "“I can take it,”Arthur snarls, turns his head and looks at Max over his shoulder. He is frowning, but not in pain.The little brat is determined to get what he wants, no matter what the cost. He looks as though he absolutely will get fucked tonight, or will die trying."
> 
> Aaaand the rating just went up.:)


End file.
